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Being an artist means forever healing your own wounds and at the same time endlessly exposing them.

Hey Blogger, it's me again.

How long has it been? Over a year? I guess a lot has happened.

I feel like the is a post where I should write a whole long, meaningful, well written post.

But the honest truth, at this very moment, is that I have nothing to write well.

I'm weirdly okay with that, which is very much a new thing for me. I'm one of those people who are constantly trying to be the best at what I do, which is almost a non-stop challenge.

So lets just say what's on our minds, well...

Yesterday I had the worst day I think I've had in a long time, the hard thing about that is that I struggle with depression and when it hits... Oh man it hits. But what is so wrong with that? I was sitting there, trying my best to take pills to make me sleep the pain away, calling everyone that I had already over called, non-stop chain smoking a new pack, not eating, hardly being able to breathe from the pain that was going on in my chest.

It's hard to read that, isn't it?

But why?

I think I can name a handful of friends who have tried to kill themselves in the past fucking MONTH and that is the most honest shit I have said in a long time.

It's scary. Life is fucked up and scary.

What the fuck am I writing....

I used to want to be a writer who was taken seriously, but I'm trying something new... I'm going to say what's going on in my head now instead of what I'm thinking people will like.